


Jasmine-Vanilla

by Rikudera



Category: Homestuck, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Genre: Derse Dreamers, Dream Bubbles, Gen, M/M, Memories, discussion of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikudera/pseuds/Rikudera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk reads his little sister an adventure story before bedtime, while her broken wing heals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jasmine-Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, [mostlyharmless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyharmless/pseuds/mostlyharmless)! This was a royal pain to edit, format-wise, but Sam is just that amazing :)
> 
> It's not necessary to be familiar with MLP to read this, but the episodes referenced are "[Read It And Weep](http://mlp.wikia.com/wiki/Read_It_and_Weep)", "[The Cutie Mark Chronicles](http://mlp.wikia.com/wiki/The_Cutie_Mark_Chronicles)", and "[Sonic Rainboom](http://mlp.wikia.com/wiki/Sonic_Rainboom)".

You're puttering around in your apartment when you hear her voice.

"Bro." She hasn't raised her voice above a normal speaking volume, but you're tuned to her, especially now. Sparing a fleeting glance at the dinner you were about to sit down and eat, you pick up your mug of tea and head into her bedroom.

"What is it?" you ask. The little girl is sitting up in her bed with her arms crossed, frowning discontentedly at you. Her lavender eyes are staring at you, with much more disapproval than any five-year-old has a right to.

"I can't sleep," she says. The fact that her pale-blonde hair is still perfectly smooth suggests she hasn't tried very hard, and her sky-blue wings are fluffed up like she's trying to intimidate you into doing something about it. That one of her wings is heavily bandaged hasn't stopped her from sticking them out as far behind her as she can. "I wanna play a video game." She doesn't jut her chin out, but you can tell she wants to.

"You need to rest so your wing can heal, kid," you reply.

"Broooo," she says, drooping dramatically.

"Doctor's orders."

"You didn't even _take_ me to the doctor, " she says, un-drooping herself to stare at you flatly.

"You know why we can't go to the doctor for anything training-related," you reply calmly, swirling the tea in your cup with perfect casualness.

She'll get the hang of the rainboom thing eventually. You know deep in your gut that she has to, if she's going to survive. You would be sure of it even without the letter you received many years ago, since sewn carefully into a secret panel in your hat.

You've read enough Plato in your youth to know that when the soul of the world dies, the ocean will burst into green fire and rise up to swallow it whole. You can't prevent the inevitable disaster and destruction - no one can stop that clock, in the end - but you can prepare the girl for it as best you can.

"The way of the flash step ninja is shrouded in secrecy," she recites, then smiles knowingly. "The Batterwitch can't catch us if we're too fast for her." You like to encourage her embellishments, both in cases like this and in the **illustrated stories** she has already begun to compose. Both the  Batterwitch and Bearded wizard unicorns deserve creative liberties taken of them now and then, if only for the sake of your sanity.

"Exactly," you say. You’ve had enough first-hand experience with the foster care system to know that you would burn down the jungles of Houston before ever letting Foal Protective Services get a hold of your little girl. "Quit being a smartass and go to bed." You take a sip of tea for dramatic effect. "We both know I have a PhD in Flashstep Ninja First Aid."

She sighs. You put your tea down on the nightstand beside her bed.

"If you quit fussing and go to sleep," you amend, "we can play Tony Hawk as much as you want tomorrow."

"Can you read me a story first?" she smiles sweetly. She even bats her eyelashes.

"You drive a hard bargain, missy," you say, standing up and walking to her bookshelf. You wait until you're fully turned away before you allow the corner of your mouth to quirk up. She can play you better than her violin, when she really tries, and that's **GODDAMN FANTASTIC**. " What kind of story do you want?"

"An adventure story," she says. Your fingers skim the shelves for an appropriate title, then stop and pull one of the longer books, carrying it with you back to her. The Wizardy Herbert you were considering is one of her favorites, but she’ll be able to relate to this one more at the moment. Plus, it's long enough to continue reading in the subsequent evenings of bed rest she’ll surely need. You sit in the chair by the bed reserved for reading, take a sip of tea, then open the book and begin.

"As Daring Do trekked through the tropical jungle, the wet heat sapped her energy and  s l o w e d  her every step," you begin. "If only she could escape this oppressive atmosphere and fly up into the cool blue sky." The devilbeasts still awake in the jungle beyond the bedroom's protective fenestrated plane add to the ambient atmosphere, and the girl is rapt and attentive. "But her crash landing in the jungle had injured her wing and she was grounded for a few days..."

 *~*~*~*~*~*~*

The girl is asleep by the time you finish the first chapter. You bookmark where you left off, place the story back on the shelf, then return to the nightstand to grab your mug.

Your tea has gone tepid on the nightstand, but you finish it anyway because it's the jasmine-vanilla blend you like to reserve for extenuating circumstances. You even drink the dregs because you're a hard dude and sometimes hard dudes put a fuckton of sugar in their tea when it would usually be as **dark** as their shades, rather than as  sweet as their rad skateboard moves. You almost don't even think about how probable it is that her broken wing is entirely your fault.

You set the empty tea mug back down on the nightstand and tuck her more snugly into her Squiddle blankets, taking care to avoid her bandaged wing. Sitting back down in the chair, you decide to stay a few extra minutes to make sure she's fully asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You wake at midmorning still in the chair. Someone is sitting on your lap; you can tell by the weight and shape of the body against yours that the person is not a child. Your companion is patient enough to let you approach consciousness slowly.

You can hear the tinkerbulls outside, their wings humming gently as they travel through the jungle. The air smells like flowers, honeysuckle and jasmine and something else you should be able to place but can't quite remember.

The person in your lap smells of nutmeg and pumpkin, cinnamon and grass too green to be real. He kisses you, softly. You sigh at the warmth. It feels familiar.

You open your eyes slowly to Jake's face. There are wings on his shirt. You don't know where your **shades** went.

"Morning, love," he says, slow, patient.

He smiles, and it is the single most sincere thing you have ever seen or will ever see in your life. He is beautiful, not in a way that is masculine or feminine, nor in a way that has anything to do with how the pale yellow of his clothing frames the deep green and warm brown of his face. It is in a way that has everything to do with how entirely without guile or pretension or your stupid, useless irony he is.

"Jake..." You don't know what the inflection in your voice means, or why it's catching on just a single word. Your throat is a foreign entity, and your fingers move to delicately touch on his waist, gossamer thread attached to each joint as reminders of things you've long since lost the meaning of.

Everything is so in tune in this moment that you cannot fathom what it was like to be discordant. You wonder if this is what people mean when they talk about religious experiences.

Jake smiles like he knows the answer to every question that has ever been asked or will ever be asked, and has been waiting for you to wake up so he can tell you. Then, he leans forwards and kisses you again.

Your heart breaks and reforms, breaks and reforms in symmetry with its beating. It unfolds and your ribs part open, taking flight like tiny seabirds, carrying the strings from your limbs with them out the window, through the jungle, and away to the Atlantic coast.

There is a delicate cough from the bed, and Jake disappears. Your **shades** and your  ribs go back to their proper places, all strings firmly attached.

The girl sitting up in the bed is not five years old. She's only a few years younger than you, dressed in purple Derse pajamas. The Squiddles on her blanket dance and giggle to make up for her subtly amused poise during the milliseconds it takes you to regain your composure; you both tolerate the cephalopod commentary because looking out for dreamers by making these bubbles is generous enough of them as it is. The girl's eyes are the blank white of the dead, but you think you might be too embarrassed to ask why. 

Her wings are gone.

"Hello, Mr. Strider," she says, extracting herself from the blankets and standing up.

"You're Roxy's mom," you reply, standing up as well. You are the coolest of the cool. You are certainly not thinking about how your first encounter with one of your greatest idols has involved both cartoon ponies and making out with an imaginary copy of your boyfriend.

You really hope she doesn't ask you about Jake. There's a certainty somewhere vaguely north of your gut that knows exactly how fascinated she would be to discuss him with you. Another time, you might actually indulge her, but the moment feels too raw, too private right now.

"My name is Rose," she says. You note that as one of the things you'd forgotten.

"Dirk."

"I wanted to thank you for letting me visit this memory," she says. "I liked the story." You blink behind your **shades** and still.

"I thought it was your memory," you say. Rose stops smiling.

"Maybe some things were," she admits, resting a hand on the nightstand, "but most of it wasn't."

“...I can think of a few things that were mine,” Jake and the ponies, for one, “but how can we both go through a memory that neither of us remembers?”

“I wonder...” Rose muses, though you get the sense she has a fairly good idea.

This is no good. You’re not used to sleeping, or any of the weird shit that comes with it. Especially not regarding extra memories from what you increasingly suspect is an alternate **shitty** guardian version of yourself.

You... wouldn’t really be that strict with a little girl, would you? You bitched to Roxy about what terrible parents you would make, but... you _wouldn’t_ , would you?

You bet she’s an expert at that rainboom-y thing, though, or whatever it is separated from the context of cartoon ponies. If it was as important as you don’t remember it being, then she must be. The world would not have sunk into flame otherwise. Her role is too critical. That was what that letter had meant.

“Mr. Strider?” Of course she learned how to do it. That would be worth what you both struggled for, even if her wing was hurt in the process.

"Is it my fault you broke your wing?" you ask eventually. The words feel like they're clawing themselves out of your throat.

"...What?" Rose stills, and her hand rests on the nightstand once more.

"Is it my fault?" you repeat. "What happened to your wing." You both know you're not talking just about the wings she had in your dream, but you can't get the picture out of your head. No little girl should have to be pushed that hard that young. A guardian should be more patient than that.

"I think a parent does what..." she looks away, tracing the rim of your tea mug with a finger, "...what they think is best for their children." That’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, either. You feel like it wouldn’t be fair to press her for a more definite answer, however. You don’t think you were a good enough bro to a little sis like her to have earned that.

“But...” she continues. You raise a single eyebrow, to let her know you’re paying attention. “I’ve never had wings, you know.” She says it like it’s the secret coded answer to a question you haven’t asked yet. You remain silent; she smiles, a bit mischievously. “You should think about it.”

“Sure.”

“We should both be on our way, I believe,” she adds. Something  appears in her hand. “Do you think I can go two for two?”

“I... What?” Her smile widens.

“Two for two,” she repeats. Is this another thing you’re supposed to be remembering? “Do you think I can do it?”

You study her face. You realize that even with her blank eyes, you know what expression she’s trying to make. This lets you know exactly what your response needs to be.

“I know it,” you smirk.

“See you in a bit,” Rose says. You realize, in the next few moments, that she has thrown a  at you.

You totally let it smack you in the face.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You wake with a start. You remember that you are on LOMAX, in one of the barrows with less iguana bones in it. You sit up. Next to you, Jake is still asleep. He is, in fact, sleeping like a fucking log, hair mussed more than usual but bare shoulders peeking out from that stupid survival blanket he insists on using.

The real Jake has never looked at you the way he did in that dream. Your ribs remain decidedly in your skin, where they are connected to your spine and muscles. They ache and creak at the thought of remaining where they are. You don’t know what to do to make him look at you like that because you didn’t realize how badly you wanted it until it became a possibility.

“Mmnh... Dirk?” Shit, he’s waking up. “You’re so tense...”

“Go back to sleep, dude,” you murmur. “It’s still early.” You start to reach a hand to pet his hair, then stop partway. He rolls to face you more directly, cracks a single eye partway open, and pulls your arm against him.

“Then you go to sleep, too,” he says, eye slipping shut again.

“Nah. Sleep’s for other people.” Jake tugs your arm. “Real fuckin’ weird, is what it is.”

“You’re letting all the warm air out.” He tugs again. “I’ll catch my death of cold.” You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and oblige him, laying down. Jake doesn’t let up his grip around your arm. “Mmm... Strider dashes to the rescue once more.”

“Go to sleep, dork. Not everywhere’s as balmy as Hellmurder Island Resort.” How is he this corny even when barely coherent?

“I dreamed about snow once,” Jake mumbles, “but I was all on my lonesome. It was quiet as anything. If there _was_ anyone, the rapscallion was hiding.” You have no idea where he’s going with this. “What were you dreaming about? You’re all worked up.”

Oh. That.

“Ponies,” you reply. “And I am not worked up. I’m perfectly fine.”

“What?”

“It was about ponies,” you repeat. You wonder if it’s too farfetched for even Jake to accept as truth. It’s not technically a lie, but it _is_ really weird. You don’t think you can admit anything about Rose to anyone. Jake wouldn’t understand. “Can’t a dude have a weird dream without it being a federal fucking issue? The sociopolitical situation of the short-statured equine can be incredibly complex, Jake. I don’t think you’re awake enough for the dissertation that subject requires.”

“What the fiddle-faddle are you going on about?” Jake demands sleepily.

“...God. It _is_ weird, isn’t it?” Why the fuck were you dreaming about little girls with pony wings, anyway? You can’t remember any of the proper context you feel you should know. The main impression you’ve been left with is that you should  never have children. Ever.

“Stop talking, Dirk, I’m cold...” You can’t tell if you or Jake sounds whinier right now, and you feel terrible about it.

“That’s me, the-” you roll to face Jake, and his eyes are open again, looking directly at you. The phrase _glorified space heater_ dies in your throat before it can leave, as it probably should. You exhale silently.

His eyes are so green. You are so terribly, horribly afraid.

Jake isn’t looking at you like he did when you were asleep, but he kisses you anyway. You wonder if he ever dreams about wings.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are curious, this Rose is from right after being blown up by The Tumor and before ascending to her god tier.


End file.
